


A Crowded House

by thinlizzy2



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Jealousy, Multi, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships, failed polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: Tyrion knows that, on the surface of things, he has what every man in Westeros would kill for. He's married to a beautiful, thoughtful woman and has a mistress skilled beyond words in the art of giving pleasure. What's more, the two women adore each other, laughing and jesting as they tumble into bed and beckon him to hasten and join them. The unlovable dwarf has become the luckiest man alive, and he cannot deny the sweetness of that.And yet, he still wakes up cold.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	A Crowded House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashing-the-trashmouth (summerforbran)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerforbran/gifts).



There is a chill in his bones when Tyrion Lannister awakens, and he instinctively checks the fire. It is still burning steadily; he doesn't understand how they do it, but these clever Northern servants know how to set the wood so that the flames emit an even heat throughout even the longest winter nights. But the furs which he is meant to shelter beneath have been pulled off him, either by his wife or their lover. It is impossible to tell which. As always, Sansa and Margaery are sleeping locked in each other's arms, wrapped securely in the stolen covers. Their embrace is so tight that it is impossible to identify which one was the thief.

God's, his skin feels like cold meat.

Tyrion knows he could wake them up. Demanding his dues as King of the North, he could reclaim his stolen blankets. Or he could call for a servant to bring more furs and wrap himself up in a solitary cocoon beside them, building an isolated little chrysalis in which to stew in his resentment. But his bladder is full and his will is waning. He leaves the beauties to their sleep and reaches for his robe instead.

Once he has relieved himself and gathered a cup of hot tea to chase away what it can of the chill, he tries to see his situation through calmer eyes. Tyrion knows that, on the surface of things, he has what every man in Westeros would kill for. He has power, perhaps more power than my Lannister before him him ever legitimately obtained. He's married to a beautiful, thoughtful woman and has a mistress skilled beyond words in the art of giving pleasure. What's more, the two women adore each other, laughing and jesting as they tumble into bed and beckon him to hasten and join them. The unlovable dwarf has become the luckiest man alive, and he cannot deny the sweetness of that.

And yet, he still wakes up cold.

He hadn't known it would be like this when the Tyrell girl appeared at Winterfell, miraculously alive and appealingly in need. Margaery knew very well how to use her assets to her advantage, and even though Tyrion understood the mechanics of the trick he was far from immune to its effects. When Sansa, who always asked him for so little, had pleaded sweetly with him to make a place for her old friend, he had been overjoyed. And for a short while, it had been the stuff that lonely men's dreams were made of. His polite, kind but distant wife had transformed herself into a wanton temptress as though the change were as natural, inevitable and miraculous as the melting of the snows. And Margaery had proved herself to be what he had always imagined she would: as talented and creative as the most expensive women he had ever encountered in a long career of patronising whores. It had been the stuff of fantasies, and after the long nightmare of the last few years, he had very nearly lost himself in it.

And then, like any fantasy, it had begun to fade away. The women began slipping off to the baths together, and he could hardly insist on joining them. A woman's bathing chamber was her private domain, a refuge of the feminine. Sansa was, despite her carefully sheathed fangs and claws and her flexibility in the bedchamber, well-trained in the school of what was and was not acceptable. Her imagined offense would have made it impossible to even ask, and so if course he hadn't. And now they pass long hours together, shut up in Sansa's rooms, and how could Tyrion object? With Sansa this distracted, much of the business of running the court has fallen to him, and his stupid male pride will not allow him to beg his wife to resume her duties. It would have make him appear unable to manage statesmanship on his own, and the blow to his ego would be crushing.

Equally crushing is the possibility that she might simply refuse. They are equals here, partners in a delicate balancing act unlike any other. He is the King, but she is the Northerner; as such, she only obeys his wishes out of impeccably good manners. There is nothing preventing her from declining to leave the warm places between Margaery's thighs for the cold stone of the throne, and Tyrion knows that he could not bear having her remind him of it.

Not that she is ever cruel to him. Nor is Margaery. It would be easier if he could hate them, dismiss them as cold and cuckolding women, his sister's rightful heirs, and be done with them altogether. But when she wakes, Sansa will kiss his cheek and call him the greatest husband ever to live. Margaery will bend low before him, giving him a deliberate look at her pretty breasts as she waves the servants away to pour his wine herself. He will feel his heart soften as they discuss everything from the political developments in the south to the newest fabrics Margaery wishes to order. And tonight he will be allowed to spend himself between the legs or in the breasts or in the mouth of whichever beauty he chooses, while the other lends her sweet kisses and murmers of approval to the pleasure of it all. And then, once he has been so dutifully managed, how will he find the strength to object when they turn from him and roll into each other's arms?

He will not. And he never will.

Nor will he ever leave. There isn't a single man in the North who would support his claim to rule over Sansa's, and even if there were he knows he couldn't bear to depose her. His aversion to causing his wife pain dates back to her girlhood, and their first disastrous attempt at marriage. He could choose to quit the North instead, but the idea of returning to Casterly Rock and leaving behind the wild good fortune he has found here seems laughable. What is he meant to do, abandon a kingdom, a throne and the two most desirable women he has ever met for an empty bed in a decaying castle? It would take a stronger man than him to do that, and Tyrion at least knows that much about himself.

In a way, he is as much trapped in his marriage as Cersei was in hers, and perhaps his situation is even worse. Jaime, after all, never slipped into Robert's bed, his eyes eager for the lout's kisses and his face transformed by lust. Tyrion knows Cersei would take as much pleasure in his current situation as he would have had the same happened to her. For a moment, he imagines he can hear his sister's mocking laughter, and he has to close his eyes and shake his head to block out the sound.

It is replaced by Margaery's voice, as deceptively light and gentle as her grandmother trained her to keep it. "Your Grace?" She is calling to him from the landing above. "We awoke without Your Grace." She gives a pretty pout. "We were worried."

Sansa appears behind her, wrapped head to toe in her dressing gown, the perfect picture of a modest wife and queen. "Will you break your fast with us, husband? I hope we have not made you wait."

And though Tyrion hates himself for doing it, he can not stop himself. He smiles and bows, waving them forward to precede him.


End file.
